(somewhere deep inside the mountain)
In the dim, flickering light of the ancient forge, the air was thick with the scent of molten metal and burning coals. The dwarves of the mountain had kept the forge alive for millennia, a shrine to their fallen god Bezmadan, whose flame they guarded with the reverence of priests. The great halls of stone, carved by the hands of their ancestors, resonated with the rhythmic clang of hammer on anvil—a sound that had echoed through these mountains since time out of mind.
The anvil rang with sharp, rhythmic strokes as a young dwarf worked, her hammer sending sparks into the dim light of the forge. An older dwarf watched her from the shadows, his eyes heavy with the weight of years and unspoken worries.
"You're distracted, girl," he rumbled, his voice a low growl that seemed to rise from the very stones of the mountain. "Your strikes lack their usual precision."
The hammer paused mid-strike, its wielder straightening as she wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. "I've been thinking," she admitted, her voice edged with determination. "About the expedition that High Keeper Alviss is planning."
The older dwarf's expression darkened, deep lines creasing his weathered face. "Aye, I thought as much. You've got the look of a youngling with something reckless on her mind."
The hammer was set down with a soft clang, resolve hardening in the young dwarf's eyes. "I want to join them. They need a smith, and I'm the best one they've got who's still young enough to swing a hammer outside the forge."
A heavy sigh escaped the old dwarf, burdened by the weight of his years. "And what makes you think you're ready for such a task? You're skilled, no doubt, but the jungle is no place for a forge-born dwarf. It's a wild, treacherous land, filled with dangers that haven't been seen in centuries."
"That's precisely why I need to go," she countered, her eyes flashing with determination. "Our hold is failing. The runestones are losing their power, the water's growing fouler with each passing year, and we're running out of the materials we need to keep the forge burning. We can't just sit here, hoping the mountain will provide for us forever. Stonehearth might hold the answers we need. Those runestones could be the key to saving our people."
The old dwarf's gaze softened, though concern lingered in his eyes. "I won't deny the truth in your words. But this is no simple journey. The outpost of Stonehearth was lost for a reason. The jungle swallowed it whole, and no dwarf who ventured there has ever returned. Alviss is a wise keeper, but even his knowledge might not be enough to guide you through those cursed woods."
Stepping closer to her mentor, the young dwarf's voice lowered with urgency. "That's why they need me. I'm not just a smith—I'm your apprentice. You've taught me the ways of the forge, but more than that, you've taught me how to adapt, how to survive. If I don't go, who will? We can't send a half-trained smith and expect them to make it back alive, let alone recover those runestones."
The old dwarf stroked his beard, his mind working through the arguments, weighing each one carefully. "You're as stubborn as your father was," he muttered, more to himself than to her. "He had the same fire in him, the same need to prove himself."
The young dwarf's expression softened, but her resolve remained unshaken. "I've never forgotten his lessons. He would want me to do this—to protect our people, to secure our future. Please, let me go, Hjolgurn."
At last, the old smith—Hjolgurn Marblekind—sighed, this time with a note of resignation. "If you're set on this path, Gwenbelle, I won't stand in your way. But you must promise me one thing. Promise me that you'll keep your wits about you. The jungle is no forge—it won't bend to your will, no matter how strong you are. Listen to Alviss, heed his wisdom, and trust in the warriors who'll be with you."
"I will," Gwenbelle vowed, her voice firm. "I'll bring back what we need to save the hold. I swear it."
Hjolgurn nodded, his eyes filled with a mix of pride and sorrow. "Then go, girl. May the forge's fire light your way, and may the mountain protect you."
In the heart of the Dwarven hall, the solemn gathering fell silent as the High Keeper, Alviss, began to speak of the coming expedition. The flickering torchlight played shadows across the stone walls, highlighting the deep lines of concern etched into the faces of the dwarves present. Ori Rekkr, the seasoned warrior captain, stood beside Alviss, his eyes scanning the gathered assembly with a cautious gaze.
"To venture beyond our sacred mountain is no small task," Ori began, his voice as steady as the forge fires. "The jungle outside is not like the tunnels we know. There are creatures—beasts of a size and ferocity that even the strongest of us may struggle to withstand. Some are as silent as the night, striking without warning. Others roar through the trees, announcing their presence with a force that shakes the very ground. We must be prepared for all that awaits us."
The room grew tense as Ori continued, describing the dangers that lay in wait. He spoke of serpents as thick as a man's thigh, of great cats with eyes that glowed in the darkness, and of other beasts, less known but no less deadly. The dwarves listened intently, their hands gripping the hilts of their axes, their thoughts undoubtedly turning to the perils they might face.
Hjolgurn, the master smith, was the first to break the silence that followed Ori's grim warnings. "And what of our chances?" he asked, his voice a deep rumble that echoed through the hall. "What's the likelihood that we return safely to these halls, to our forges, and our kin?"
Alviss, ever the optimist, straightened. "We have planned for every eventuality," he assured them, though his eyes betrayed a glimmer of uncertainty. "With the knowledge we possess, the map of our ancestors, and the strength of our warriors, I believe we can accomplish this task and return with the runestones we need."
Ori nodded, though his expression remained guarded. "I trust in the strength of our kin," he said, "but remember, even the knife-eared have lost their minds in that cursed jungle. The stories are passed down through the ages for a reason."
The tension in the hall was palpable as Ori introduced the three warriors who would accompany the expedition: Nainn, Nali, and Nar, each one a seasoned fighter whose prowess was known to all. The dwarves murmured in approval, knowing that their safety was in capable hands.
Alviss then introduced the young lore keeper, Buinn, whose knowledge of ancient runes and lore would guide them in the recovery of the sacred stones. Hjolgurn, not to be outdone, presented Gwenbelle, the young smith whose skill in handling the runestones had impressed even the most skeptical of elder smith.
With the introductions complete, the five dwarves set out, passing through the tunnel that led from their mountain home. The path was familiar, yet foreboding, as it led them through the bat cave, a dark, echoing chamber that none of them relished crossing. Emerging on the other side, they were greeted by the harsh glare of the rising sun—a light so bright it blinded them momentarily, their eyes unaccustomed to anything but the glow of the forge fires.
It took several minutes before they could see clearly, blinking against the unforgiving sunlight. The jungle stretched out before them, a tangled mass of vines, bushes, and towering trees that dwarfed even the tallest structures within their mountain halls. The map they carried was ancient, its markings faded with time, but it was their only guide in this wild, untamed land.
Carefully, they began their journey, cutting through the dense foliage with the precision of seasoned explorers. The air was thick with the scent of earth and decay, and the sound of unknown creatures rustling in the underbrush kept them on edge. They avoided the areas marked on the map as territories of beasts, knowing that one wrong step could lead them into the jaws of death.
The ancient map might have been their only guide, but it was more than most had dared to carry into this perilous wilderness. The dwarves pressed on, driven by the knowledge that the fate of their people rested on their shoulders, and the hope that the runestones they sought would bring new life to their failing hold.
For days, the dwarves had moved cautiously through the dense jungle, the oppressive heat and constant hum of unseen creatures gnawing at their nerves. They had learned to avoid the beasts that roamed these wild lands, sidestepping danger whenever they could and defending themselves only when necessary. Bloodshed was a last resort, for they knew that the scent of spilled blood could bring worse fates upon them. The jungle was a place where life fed on life, where the strong devoured the weak, and where even the victors often paid dearly for their survival.
As the third day began to wane, the dwarves' weariness was palpable, their eyes flickering warily at every rustle in the underbrush. The sun, though obscured by the thick canopy, cast long shadows that seemed to move and breathe with a life of their own. It was then that Nar's ears caught a sound—a sudden, unmistakable rush of movement, the kind that signaled something large and deadly approaching fast.
"Scatter!" Nar's voice cut through the jungle like a blade, just as a massive form burst through the foliage with terrifying speed. The ground shook beneath the weight of the beast, and Nainn barely had time to raise his shield before the creature was upon them. It was a boar, but not like any they had seen before—this was the Boar King, a monstrous creature towering over them at twelve meters tall, its tusks gleaming like scythes in the dim light.
Nali's voice trembled as she whispered the name, a prayer and a curse all in one. Nainn braced himself, but the Boar King's charge was unstoppable. The beast's massive head collided with his shield, the force of the impact shattering the sturdy dwarven steel as if it were no more than kindling. Nainn was thrown backward, his shield arm mangled and useless, blood seeping through the gaps in his armor. His breath came in ragged gasps, the pain nearly overwhelming, but he managed to stay on his feet, grimacing through the agony.
"How?" Buinn's voice was barely audible, tinged with disbelief. "We're not in its territory…"
But there was no time for answers, only for action. Gwenbelle had already drawn her crossbow, her hands steady as she took aim at the Boar King's flank. The other warriors moved into formation, weapons ready, but there was no mistaking the fear in their eyes. They knew they could not defeat this creature in open combat. The only hope was to lure it into a retreat, to fight while falling back, avoiding the fatal blows and praying that the jungle itself would offer some reprieve.
The Boar King, however, had other plans. Its bloodshot eyes locked onto Buinn, sensing the young lore keeper's fear and inexperience. With a snort that shook the leaves from the trees, the beast charged again, its massive bulk bearing down on Buinn like a living avalanche. There was no time to think, only to react. The dwarves shouted warnings, but Buinn stood frozen, his mind racing yet his body unable to respond.
Gwenbelle's crossbow bolt flew true, striking the Boar King's thick hide, but the beast barely flinched. It was as if the weapon were a mere annoyance, a fly to be swatted away. The warriors closed ranks, their weapons flashing in the dim light, but it was clear that they were outmatched. The Boar King's tusks tore through the underbrush, its eyes wild with rage as it bore down on Buinn.
In that moment, it seemed that all was lost—that the jungle would claim another life, that the dwarves would fall one by one to this monstrous king of beasts. But in the heat of battle, desperation can breed ingenuity, and the dwarves had not survived this long by giving in to despair. They would fight, they would survive, and they would find a way to turn the tide against this creature, even if it meant risking everything.
With a roar, Nar and Nali moved to intercept the Boar King, their weapons raised high, buying precious seconds as Buinn finally broke free of his terror. Gwenbelle reloaded, her mind racing for a plan, any plan that might save them. And Nainn, despite his shattered arm, grit his teeth and prepared to face the beast once more, for dwarves did not surrender, not to man, nor beast, nor fate itself.